


Bouquet de Myosotis

by CoffeeTeaAndMe (kurofu)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Dubious Consent, French Mafia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurofu/pseuds/CoffeeTeaAndMe
Summary: "What do you mean? What do you mean we can't keep doing this anymore?!""It was a child's promise, nothing more, nothing less. Those never last, and you know that."The Riddle Family, born and bred French, migrated to Great Britain for financial opportunities in the 1960s, bringing along with them their quaint bookstore and their motto:Vol de Mort--"Flight of Death". The motto of a formidable family from the Underworld.





	1. vase vide

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Rabbit! I hope I fulfilled your likes enough.  
> Beta'd by copperkeys  
>  
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I am not French, nor do I speak French. If you are knowledgeable in this language and feel the need to correct me, please do. Everything I learn is from the internet.

The sky was pitch black, its stars and bright moon hidden, stolen by clouds. Bare wooden skeletons, the only remainder of life once there, poked out from their white graves. Their shadows reaching, clawing at one another with bony hands. No critter dared to travel at these witching hours, knowing the air at this time was charged, the night silent. Still. 

Growing.

Some say prolonged silence can drive men to madness, human brains unable to withstand such a soundless vacuum. Even the most sane person would break within an hour or two. Less, even, for a man tormented by fears and paranoia.

A shrill cry broke the night. Murders of crows awoke screaming, echoing the cry, and set off into the darkness. 

In the shadows inside a dilapidated warehouse, a figure writhed. Their feet were bound to the chair legs, their wrists bound to the elbow by rope, keeping the struggling figure in place. Their neck was bound too, with coarse rope that cut skin with each agitated shake. Their mouth held wide by a gag, panicked screams muffled by the cloth. The chair lifted and fell with each jarring tug, rocking side to side, creating a metronomic “thump, thump” sound that echoed around the empty space.

Until the jerk was so harsh and powerful that it landed on the floor with a loud crash, straining figure and all. 

They laid there, fingers rabidly scratching at its bonds, fingernails peeled and bloodied from friction. 

Suddenly, a single bare light switched on. The naked bulb hung from the rafters above, illuminating the ground like a spotlight. Frantic movements stopped, similar to a deer in headlights. 

Distressed eyes flicked back in forth in an attempt to notice movement. White puffs accompanied by harsh breathing was the only noise in the winter air, but all they could hear was their rushing pulse. 

Then, out of the silence, came the “click-click”ing of dress shoes. 

The sound circled around the perimeter of the light, just out of sight. Once, twice, and again. The bound figure strained their head to follow the sound. 

From an unspoken signal, two brute men came behind the fallen chair and propped it back into place. They put a hand to flailing shoulders, effectively ending the futile escape attempts.

“Mr. Parsons,” An accented voice drawled from the shadows, the dress shoes rounding to a stop beside the trapped man’s ear, “How are you today?”

Mr. Parsons whipped his head to the side, screaming muffled profanities at the man–-no, _boy_ in front of him. 

The boy only smirked at him. “ _Bonsoir, Monsieur_ Parsons.” 

Mr. Parsons looked in disbelief at the boy. For he was surely merely a boy, just past the cusp of youth, dressed in the finest of silk suits money could buy, like a son imitating their father. The child had dark brown locks swept to one side, dark eyes that looked a bit too red in a specific light, and a handsome aristocratic face still softened by baby fat. How could someone so young be on this path?

The boy’s features contorted, a snarl on his lips. “Don’t you _dare_ pity _me_!” He threw out a hand and struck Mr. Parsons’ face. “I _chose_ this path!” 

He stepped back and ran a hand down his face, his expression reverting once he had done so. As if the lapse of anger was merely a trick of the eye. 

“Sorry about that, Mr. Parsons, I just don’t do well with pity,” the boy gave a soft smile that never reached his eyes, “How did you like our escort services? Any complaints that need to be filed?” When all he got back was a muffled angry response, he clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Oh! That’s right, you can’t speak. Take off the gag.”

One of the brutes untied the gag from Mr. Parsons’ mouth, who spat it out before staring down the boy. “Complaints? Of fucking course I have them! Let me go, you bratty kid! Why the fuck am I––” 

Mr. Parsons was cut off with another punch, his head snapping to the side with the force of it. 

“Who do you think you are, Mr. Parsons?” The boy asked, his voice frigid, rage simmering beneath the tone. “To call me a ‘ _kid_ ’? I am no less of an adult than you or the two behind you are.” 

The boy took off his suit jacket and placed it into the hands of a waiting brute, revealing a waistcoat and a white button down, his hands moving to fold the sleeves up to his elbows. He walked back to Mr. Parsons with something in hand.

“The reason why you are here, Mr. Parsons, is because of what you’ve done. Selling company secrets is a big no-no. I’m sure you know that; after all, you wouldn’t have run away if you didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mr. Parsons bit out. Rage burned inside of him, he’d done nothing wrong to this kid. How dare he blame him for something he didn’t do?

“You… don’t know?” The boy blinked at him before doubling over with laughter. “Oh, that’s hilarious! Someone, bring me a chair!” A chair was brought, and he immediately flipped it so he sat backwards on it, resting his arms on the chair back. 

He looked on at Mr. Parsons expectedly while silence reigned between them. Unnerved, Mr. Parsons fidgeted underneath the boy’s gaze. The accusatory gaze tripped locked memories in Mr. Parsons’ heart. He swallowed, looking away before finally breaking.

“I–-I really don’t know,” Mr. Parsons said, confused and determined to keep his innocence about this whole thing. “Did… did I do something to you? Your family?”

The boy narrowed his gaze, a blank look on his face. He didn’t believe him, it seemed. Mr. Parsons was at a loss; he didn’t know what was going on, and the boy wasn’t helping at all!

A few beats of silence before the boy opened his mouth again and agreed, “My family.”

Mr. Parsons racked his head, trying to recall whether he had ever seen this boy before, either in passing or directly. 

A tongue clucked in front of him, and his attention shot back to the boy who had lifted his head away in irritation, unwilling to look at the disgrace. 

“What a pain,” The boy mumbled under his breath, uncaring if Mr. Parsons overheard. He breathed a huff from his nose, annoyance grating at his nerves. He snapped his head back to look at Mr. Parsons, a smirk slowly growing on his lips. 

“Nathaniel Jackson Parsons, 36; date of birth: November 29th, 1982, mother: Rachel Elis nee Norsi. father: Mitchell Ross Elis.” He cocked his head at Mr. Parsons. It seemed like he still didn’t take him seriously. Time to go deeper. “Lives in a flat with a bichon frise named Marsha. Currently pursuing a relationship with a young medical student, Caroline Yvonne Mayer, 20 years old.” Finally a reaction, a twitch. But not enough. 

“Has a family that he has neglected for six years.” The boy’s smirk practically grew feral as he enunciated the next sentences. “A household of three in Nottingham: a single mother and two children. Katherine Vang, 34, works three jobs a week and still finds the time to spend with her children. Daughter Terry Harmony Elis, age 8, attends a prestigious school for talented girls. And Sean-dean Elis, age 5––”

“Stop! Stop!” Mr. Parsons cried out, body shaking and tears dripping down his face. “What do you want? I’ll–-I’ll tell you everything! Please,” He dropped his head onto his chest, defeated, his voice small and quivering, “Please, just don’t hurt them….”

The boy got up and patted the shoulder of the sobbing figure before rounding behind him and whispering, “You should have done this earlier, Mr. Parsons.” 

“On July 24th, where were you, Mr. Parsons?” He asked, walking the perimeter of the spotlight.

“J-July 24th? That was _months_ ago! How can I even remember that!?” 

“Oh?” The boy halted in his rounds, side-eyeing the man. “You don’t remember? Shall I… ask your wife?”

“No! I remember, I remember! I… I was at that one French bookstore! The one owned by the… the Riddle family,” Realization dawned on Mr. Parsons face, which quickly led to horror. “And… you were the boy at the register….”

“I see that you remember, how momentous,” The boy drawled, his voice as dry as sandpaper, sending shivers down Mr. Parsons back. Cold sweat ran down his face in rivets as the severity of the situation made itself known to him. “Sad that you only know how consequential it is now.”

“I… I was forced to! I–-I didn’t want to do it! I was forced! They threatened me with Caroline! I can’t have anything happen to her!”

“But you’re willing to have your _family_ hurt?” 

The man flinched at that. “No!” He roared. “Never!”

“‘No’? ‘Never’?” The boy mocked, his voice crudely imitating the desperate man’s. “ _Monsieur_ Parsons, what a worthless father you are. To sell your family’s life for a measly £15,000? Pathetic.”

The man whimpered and begged. Too late, the boy thought, way too late. Too late for his pathetic life and for the relationships he was trying to salvage. He raised the Glock in his hand, aiming it at Mr. Parsons’ head, a silencer in place. 

“I’ll ask you one more question, _Monsieur_ Parsons before I blow a hole through your skull. I’d advise that you answer as truthfully as possible. Well, as much as a whistleblower like you could.

“Have you heard news of a runaway from my family? Curly black hair with green eyes, a tad shorter than I?”

Mr. Parsons only shook his head, defeated, a shell of his former self at the realization of what his actions had cost him. The boy gave out a soft sigh. “I see. _Merci pour votre disponibilité._ Don’t worry about your family, _Monsieur_ Parsons, they will be fine.”

He pulled the trigger. 

A splatter of warm blood landed on his cheek as the body in front of him slumped forward in its bonds, the two goons removing their hands, never once flinching.

“Because they never existed in the first place.”

O0o.o0O

Tom leaned back, resting his back on the cold leather of the car seat. He closed his eyes in frustration. So close, yet so far. 

One of the goons entered the car, and within moments the car was started, heading back to civilization. Silence settled between the occupants before a faint cough from the front reminded Tom of his duty.

He knocked his head back and exhaled. Better to get it over with. He slid his phone out from his pocket and brought it up to his face–-squinting from the screen’s bright light–-and made a call. 

The dialing tone seemed to run on forever, the repetitive sound nearly luring Tom to sleep. After all, despite how much he hated it, his body was still growing, and it was way past his bedtime. The call connected with a click. Silence greeted him from the other side, but Tom knew that he was there. Waiting, expectant, attentive.

“The rat has been found and dealt with accordingly.”

_“And?”_

Tom looked out the window, the moon peeking out from its barriers of clouds, illuminating the ground before being suppressed once again, plunging the scenery back into darkness. “...There was no news about him.”

_”...Is that so?”_

“Yes.”

_”Continue. I expect results.”_ And with that, the dial tone was his only companion.

Tom sighed again, “ _Oui, Père,_ ” and let his phone slip out of his grip, choosing instead to cover his eyes with his arm. Fuck. He’s too tired for this.

With a groan, he dropped his arm and dug around in his pocket. He took out his wallet and opened it, gently sliding a photo out of a slot. The picture was well-cared for, the glossy varnish of the photo still pristine, but the edges of the paper were frayed from the numerous amounts of times it was removed. 

Tom studied the two boys in the photo before dragging a finger down one of the boys’ faces, the one with black curls, green eyes, glasses, and a big smile, hugging a smaller figure beside him. 

_Grand frère_ , where are you? 

O0o.o0O

_“Grand frère! Grand frère! I’m going to marry you one day!” Tom declared. His little chest puffed out proudly as he pointed at his brother, cheeks painted pink by determination._

_“Wh-what?” Harry stuttered, his pen slipping from his hand in shock splattering ink onto his work. “Tom, we can’t get married!”_

_“But--but we love each other!”_

_Tom deflated at the rejection, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He crossed his arms across his chest, pouting. Terrified that Tom was going to cause a scene, Harry quickly turned around in his seat to comfort his brother. He held open his arms, and Tom ran into them, burying his face into Harry’s sweater._

_“What do you mean we can’t get married?” Tom mumbled, and Harry strained to hear._

_“Exactly what I mean, Tom. We can’t get married–-we’re siblings.” He winced when Tom pounded his fists against his chest. For a seven year old, Tom had a lot of strength._

_“Besides, Tom, we’re still children, isn’t it a bit too early to think about marriage? I’m only twelve, and you’re seven.”_

_The boy adamantly shook his head, “It’s never too early! And I want to get married to you, Harry!”_

_Harry scratched at his head with one hand, the other on his brother’s back, attempting to soothe him down. How was he supposed to break this to his brother? The one that looked at him as if he hung the stars in the sky and followed him around like a duckling? “W-well Tom, it’s because the love to get married is different from the love that we as brothers have. You have to have the love Mère and Père have before you can get married, okay?”_

_Soon Tom began to relax and nodded, no longer willing to throw a tantrum, but his sniffles had yet to settle down. “I… I understand, Harry.” Then he jumped out of Harry’s hold, stood proudly once more, took a deep breath, and pointed at his brother. “I’m going to take over the Milieu! I’ll become the next head! Since you don’t want to become the Caïd, I’ll become it, and then take you on as my wife! After all, every Caïd needs a strong wife!”_

_“T-Tom!” Harry cried out, scandalized, his face flushed with mortification. “Did you not understand me?! We can’t get married!”_

_“Hmph! Fine, then at least stay by my side, okay?”_

_“Okay, Tom, we can’t get married, but I’ll stay by your side.” Harry reached out his hand to twine his pinky against his brother’s outstretched one._

_“Forever?”_

_“Yes, forever.” And they sealed the promise with a kiss of their thumbs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Merci pour votre disponibilité._ \--Thank you for your availability.  
>  _Père_ \--Father  
>  _Grand frère_ \--Big brother  
>  _Mère_ \--Mother  
>  _Caïd_ \--Boss


	2. première floraison

A loud screech of tires on asphalt, a man angrily yelling _‘hey!_ ’, And honking broke Harry from his thoughts. He quickly sent out an apology and ran to the other side of the crosswalk, ignoring the grumbling of an old man about the foolishness of today's youth. He didn't have the time for an old man's mumbles--he had other important things to worry about.

Once safe and away from traffic, Harry brought his gloveless hands to his face, and breathed on them, his exhale producing white clouds when it hit contact with the winter air. His cold-numb fingers barely felt the heat, and he pushed them into his coat pockets. Maybe they would warm there. One would expect that the sun would warm things up, Harry thought bitterly as he looked up at the pale, clear sky, glaring at the white star.

His eyes shifted from side to side,before crossing the next crosswalk. No suspicious of familiar faces seem to be following him. Good.

But he still can't keep this up for long. Something has to change..

Harry slipped into a nearby boutique–-a store with a name he had not bothered to check–-the heating inside a warm welcome compared to the biting winds outside. It was a cozy place, white walls, dark wood flooring, and few metal works giving the feel of an antique charm. He walked through clothing racks, stopping here and there to lift a hanger to peruse at. 

By the time he made it to the back, he had several articles of clothing draped over his arm to try on. A staff pointed him to a small cubicle with a slight smile on her face, and Harry thanked her with a nod.

It was tiny, he must admit, but that was to be expected. At least it had a waist-length mirror and a small table beside it. Harry dropped the pile onto the table and dug into his pockets. He placed a case down and gripped the edges of the wood, bracing himself before facing the mirror.

His reflection stared back at him, familiar yet strange at the same time. It was him, but also not him. Harry sighed as he ran a hand through his light brown curls, it was weird every time he looked at himself. He had dyed his hair and began to wear colored contacts in order to escape the possibility of being recognized in the streets.

Opening the contact case, Harry took out the blue contacts and replaced them with brown ones. Then he picked at the pile of clothes on the table, choosing an outfit to wear. When he was done, he checked his handiwork in the mirror.

He looked like Tom, Harry hesitantly admitted, when he was dressed casually–-a dark turtleneck with subtle silver detailing and dove gray trousers–-and lounging on the couch with a tumbler in hand, oozing self-confidence as if he owned the place. The thought of it made his heart ache.

After growing up with him for 19 years, watching Tom go from a toddling child to the commanding heir apparent of the Riddle family, Harry was leaving him. 

He shook his head clear from the depressing thought. There was no use in thinking about it, he had made his choice, and he had to stick to it. It also wouldn't do to become an obstacle in Tom's growth; his brother was destined for great things, and Harry didn't want to hold him back. 

Harry looped a green knit scarf around his neck and shrugged on a peacoat before steeling himself, staring deadset into his reflection. He scooped up the rest of the pile and exited the cubicle, making a beeline for the register, smug confidence radiating from him. He passed the clothes to the blushing cashier and spoke with a charm not his own. “I'll take these and those that are on me please.” He continued to smile as the cashier's blush redeemed even further as he waited for his items to be ring up.

When he paid with cash, he ‘accidentally’ brushed their fingers together, and for the final devastating blow, he gave her a wink. By the time he left, the poor girl was beet-red.

Harry smirked to himself as he stepped into the stream of people, blending in and moving fluidly as if he belonged there.

_Grand père_ taught him well.

O0o.o0O

A voice sounded throughout the plaza, frantic and desperate in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Harry looked up from his newspaper and was met with the sight of a young woman passing out flyers. 

He took the time to observe her, from her ratty for-profit sneakers to the frazzled strands escaping from a messy bun. Everything about her screamed ‘broke college student,’ and Harry imagined scenarios that could plague a young student and force them out into the unrelenting winter sun.

Was it an attempt for quick money? He wondered as he leaned back into the chair and sipped at his drink, relaxing under the parasol's shade. Perhaps it was a missing pet, a cat? A puppy?

After several unsuccessful attempts--Harry could see her eyes darting to the outdoor patio of the bistro he was at every so often--the young woman finally raised the courage to walk up to the waist-high fence that separated customers and passerby-ers. She went up to a table, handed out a flyer, and asked a few questions before heading towards the next table to do the same. When she finally reached him, Harry was more than curious.

“Excuse me, sir. Have you seen this man?”

Harry looked down at the paper and--oh, oh my, he thought. 

In big, bold letters at the very top was the word ‘MISSING’ with a face beneath. So it wasn't a missing puppy after all.

“I'm afraid I haven't, sorry.” He said and gave her an apologetic smile. He saw the moment the glimmer of hope inside her eyes deflate. “I wish you the best of luck though.“

He turned back to his drink when the woman moved on, his lips pursed in thought. Harry had known that man, mostly in passing, but enough for an impression to stick.

The man had been an informant of sorts, earning quick cash and sending it to a dud account in Nottingham. It hasn't been hard to find out about the man's ‘family', the information had been hidden so poorly. 

The man had delusioned himself into believing that the family he had neglected had survived their murders four years ago and were living a peaceful life without him. He had written fantasies about his family's daily life, kept in journals upon journals kept in a glorified bookshelf.

Despite being a low-power informant, when the man had spilled secrets, and one of the Family's main priority was hunting him down. Harry had taken advantage of the event, leaving amidst the chaos. It was immoral, Harry knew, that he would sacrifice a man's life for his own survival, but he justified the act with the knowledge that a whistleblower was a dead man walking, so why waste such an opportunity?

Harry reached for his drink and downed it, but the bitter taste remained in his mouth. His agitation made him jittery, guilt slowly crawling up his gut. So he took out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag. The smoke filled his lungs and he exhaled both the smoke and his nerves, instantly calming him. 

His condolences to the poor young woman, because if the man was presumed missing, then the family had already gotten to him. Harry tsked, and not even a few minutes later, he sniffed out his cigarette and called for a cheque.

O0o.o0O

_Harry stared silently at his mere, a good distance away from her. She looked tired, her skin a little shiny, and her curly hair a bit damp, but her eyes were bright as she stated at the bundle in her arms._

_“Harry,” Mere called to him, “ I have someone I want you to meet.”_

_Slowly, he walked up to Mère, his Père's warnings loud in his ears––’your mother is exhausted. Do not act out.’ He stopped at the edge of the bed, lifting himself up on his tiptoes to peer over the tucked blankets, but all he could see was miles and miles of cloth._

_He frowned at what he saw. “Mere,” Harry tried not to whine, “ I don't see anyone.”_

_Mère chuckled, her voice scratchier than normal, “Silly Harry.” She freed a hand and parted at the bed. “Come up here.”_

_His face lit up at the thought. Harry had missed his mere. Père hadn't allowed him to see her for the past two days, and had told him to ignore any sounds he heard from Mère’s room. Harry had hunched down and clapped his hands over his ears when he heard her screams. Harry had been worried–-so, so worried that Père had done something to her._

_Even though Harry was five, he knew that his Père wasn't a nice man. He had heard the screams of the uncles that made Père angry, had heard the sobs of the tied-up people the uncles sometimes brought home. Mère had always looked disappointed and dad whenever Père finally brought Harry back, but she couldn't do anything._

_Harry quickly scrambled up the bed with his short legs, crawling to the middle where Mère was, her legs covered in the sheets. Mère shifted, her arms lowering to show what was inside them. He gasped._

_“Harry, meet Thomas, your brother.” Mère said, her hand stroking the uncle's cloth. “You're a big brother, Harry.”_

_“Yeah,” he breathed out, captivated by the face he saw. A small face with small eyes and a button nose with few tufts of brown hair. Harry hesitantly lifted his hand to touch the hair, only for a tiny fist to wrap around his finger. Startled, Harry looked back to the baby's face, only to be met with blurry brown eyes, and an unexpected smile broke on his face. But it quickly morphed into seriousness when he saw how tiny and breakable his brother looked, and something nasty rose up at the thought. So he vowed,_

_“Don't worry, Mère, I'll protect him.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I'm at an impasse. Should I finish the whole fic or at least half first, beta-d and made pretty, or push out whenever I have a new chapter written? 
> 
> Also next chapter... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> \--ish.


	3. deuxième floraison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: language (Tom cusses a lot 😬)
> 
> This is when the incest began.

Strained silence rang through the air. The grovelling figure on the floor trembled, the few standing behind him not faring much better either.

“What,” Tom bit out, slowly advancing towards the group, “did you just say? Care to repeat that to me once again? I think I misheard you saying that you _lost_ the cargo.”

“I-I—Sir! We can explain, Sir!” The grovelling man lifted his head in a desperate plea, only to meet the sole of a dress shoe pressing down.

Tom pushed his foot down. “I. Don’t. Care. About. _Excuses._ ” He spat out, a stomp of his foot emphasized each word. “I. Only. Care. About. _Results!_ He ignored the sharp crack of bone and the pained moans from beneath his foot. At least the blood made it easier to carry out his anger. With one last kick, Tom pushed back the disgrace and loomed over their fallen, petrified sprawl.

“You,” he snarled, his bloodied foot stepping on the heaving chest, pushing back the man’s attempt to raise himself. “ _You_ are their _leader_ —the one in charge of those _idiots_ behind you. That makes you an even bigger idiot!” The man held a hand to his broken nose in an attempt to staunch the freeflow, their eyes shaking with fear as their body flinched whenever Tom’s cutting words left his mouth. Tom’s foot ground down on the man’s sternum, making him wheeze and gasp for breath.

“You are more than _thrice_ my age, supposed to have _thrice_ more wisdom and experience that I do—so _why_ am I able to do such an easy task and _you_ can’t?!” In his rage, he lifted his foot once more and delivered a harsh stomp to the man’s sternum, leaving an imprint. He thought he heard another crack, but Tom was too mad to care. 

Disgusted with the pathetic mess in front of him, Tom dragged the sole of his shoe across the man’s once pristine shirt, leaving behind streaks of dirt and a bloody shoe print, and turned around. He no longer wanted to deal with these...minions. “Get out,” he spoke, barely above a whisper, “and the next time a mistake like this happens again, I won't be as merciful.”

Tom faced the wall and closed his eyes. He breathed in and mentally counted: _un, deux, trois_ up to ten. He could hear the shufflings and mild curses as the group madly scrambled towards their leader. The way they fumbled and grunted when the men struggled to lift up the heavy-set man having passed out definitely didn’t help the process. A painful thump and a muffled groan were heard from near the doorway before his office doors were slammed shut. 

Slowly, he forced out the breath he held, his count dropping back down to _un_ before he ran a hand through his hair and glared at the wall in front of him.

Fuck his father, and fuck the men he sent him.

The moment he had graduated and turned seventeen, _Père_ had shipped him out to this tiny, removed town near the middle of nowhere. Unwilling to wait for his GCSE scores to arrive or ask if he wanted a secondary education. Lucky—or perhaps unlucky—for _Père_ , Tom was willing to continue the family business.

Tom was certain the reason why _Père_ had him stationed was not for the ‘learning experience’ bullshit, but rather because of the fear of being overthrown. Well, fuck him, he thought viciously, because _Père will_ be overthrown. Tom _will_ become the head despite the shitty, incompetent fools and gruelling, unsalvageable business deals that _Père_ liked to throw at him.

And _goddammit!_ Tom kicked at the wall, the force behind it hard enough to make the few paintings on the plaster shudder. Now, he had to purchase a new pair of shoes, this pair too sullied with blood and grime and stupidity to wear.

O0o.o0O

“Boss, we’ve got the new shipment ready to go.” 

Tom looked up from the file in his hands and snapped it shut. His minions were busying around the storage room, running back and forth between large wooden crates, checking off check lists as they went. It seemed that whenever he’s in charge, everything got done more efficiently.

He turned his head to face Barty and gave him a nod. The man’s face brightened, pleased to receive any small bit of praise from him. Truth be told, Tom preferred cats more than dogs, but he could make an exception. Bartemius Crouch Jr. was Tom’s loyal dog, a golden retriever really—especially with the fluffy blonde hair that bounced at any movement. Barty had followed Tom to this base as he had followed Tom everywhere else. He obeyed all of Tom’s wishes, following his words to a ‘T’ despite being a few years older than him. 

Barty was near _Grand Fère_ ’s age actually, and they got along together like water and oil. When they were all younger, Bartemius Crouch would bring his son to play with _Grand Fère_ and Tom. Crouch Sr. attempted to plant his son into the Riddles’ life as a playmate to _Grand Fère_ , ensuring himself a good position in the eyes of their father, but was dismayed when Barty and _Grand Fère_ had managed to give each other broken bones and purple bruises on their first meeting. Ever since, Barty and _Grand Fère_ had an unspoken agreement to never meet, or when Tom forced them in a room together, to have a minimum of 20 foot radius and sharp barbs and thinly veiled insults between them. Tom thought it hilarious.

“That’s good, Barty,” he finally said, and his loyal dog preened even further. Barty almost swooned when Tom gave him a slight smile, the man’s eyes bright blue and sparkling. Tom shook his head at that, glad to have at least someone competent enough that he could trust despite how immature they are. He glanced down at his watch and frowned. “Barty, I leave the preparation to you for a while. Tell them to take a rest—I’m going on a smoke break.”

He pretended not to see Barty’s blond brows furrow or the slight confusion on his dog’s face, choosing instead to walk past and push the heavy metal door open. 

Tom shivered through his leather jacket when he leaned back onto the warehouse wall, the winter air having chilled the metal to a point near freezing. He looked up at the clear baby blue sky and huffed out a sigh, watching the puffs of white fly before disappearing. With practiced grace, Tom took out a carton from his pocket, drew out a cigarette, and placed it between his lips. His other hand he used to shuffle out a match and struck it on the matchbox, a flame bursting to life. 

The flames were a piercing orange surrounded by red, and Tom watched transfixed as it flickered from the wind, bending and straightening as it ate the matchstick. The smell was acrid and burned his nose, but he let it be. He blew at it and smiled when the flame didn’t die, and when the flame threatened to lick his gloves, Tom finally lit the cigarette. 

_Un, duex, trois...aspirer…._

Smoke trickled down his throat, tickling his insides, and Tom could imagine its path: the curling wisps of smoke dancing down. Down, down, down until it reached his lungs, splitting the wave into two and then into smaller and smaller ones before the exchange of oxygen and this poison would occur. 

_Trois, duex, un...expirer…._

Slowly, Tom opened his mouth, letting the smoke escape from his lips, suppressing the urge to cough. Almost, almost there, and he would be like––

The smoke built up and he was forced to hack it out. He doubled over, his hands on his knees as he sustained the force of his coughs, his face red from the effort. Idly, Tom noticed that the cigarette he dropped was snuffed out by the snow, the glowing embers dimming to a muddy black. 

When he gained control of his body again, Tom sucked in a desperate deep breath. He gasped in air like a fish did when out of water, and when he finally calmed down, his heaving chest stilling, he kicked at the snow in frustration. Dusts of white flew into the air, along with the dead cigarette, and landed somewhere far away. 

Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit! He ripped out the carton of smokes from his pocket and began to tear at it. He let out a growl of frustration when his efforts only showed to be futile, the box cover only showing signs of stress but no tear, and Tom clutched the box in his fist and raised it up high. 

He could imagine it, imagine it so very well. He would throw down the box, watch as its contents scattered from its open mouth, and lift his foot before bringing it down again and again. The paper of the cigarettes would become wrinkled and flattened and a dirty white from the dirt of his shoes. The tobacco inside would spill out like the entrails of a gutted fish, speckling the pure white snow with ugly flecks of brown and black, tainting and evidence of his attempt of sin.

But Tom couldn’t do it. His arm shook with the rage, capable of executing such a simple action, but something stopped him. 

Anger drained out of him, and Tom dropped his arm down in defeat. He stumbled backwards until his back hit the warehouse wall, letting it carry the whole of his weight. A watery laugh came out of his mouth as he stared up at the cloudless sky. 

He thought...he thought he could—Tom had even bought the same brand, but it didn’t work. His eyes drifted down to the crushed package in his hands, the black and white warnings on the cover peeking out and mocking him. 

With care that he didn’t have, Tom slipped the box back into his pocket and sighed.

O0o.o0O

“Yes! Yes, yes! Harder, please, harder!” 

Tom snarled at the bitch beneath him, “Shut up!” and pushed her head down into the pillow where her drools of ecstasy pooled. He snapped his hips harder as punishment, the bed creaking and the headboard denting the wall with each of his thrusts. The whore’s moans, despite being muffled, leaked from the pillow, louder than it was before.

“I said, ‘shut up’!”

If it wasn’t for the extreme stress, Tom wouldn’t be in this situation right now. He wouldn’t have to be dealing with this stupid, noisy pig. A pig that moaned obscenely and drooled everywhere.

“ _Shut up_!”

The deal hadn’t gone well. The opposite party had sent in a lowly drug dealer as their representer, and Tom had been incensed at the blatant disrespect. To send in someone this low to meet _him_? The son of the Riddle Mafia? The _heir_ and future _Caïd_ to the Riddle Dynasty?

And then for that lowly bug to look down at him as if he was _lesser_? 

__If it wouldn’t have caused an immediate war, Tom would have gouged out their eyes and ripped out their throat with his teeth._ _

The disrespect and the condescending way that the bug addressed Tom was skin-crawling, and to add insult to injury, none of his stupid _men_ , except for Barty, had wanted to defend him. To them, he was only a kid, a babe that was barely off its mother’s teat, and Tom hated it. 

He was better than all these trash, they had no future, but _he_ , he would be great. He would bring the Riddle name to fame. He would make his opponents cower at his name, their family motto, and he would have the police grovel before him and under his thumb—and he would have it all with _Grand Fère_ by his side. 

__Burning with the flames of his dreams, Tom’s hands gripped too soft hips back and draped himself on a too thin back, pretending it was sharp angles and harsh lines instead._ _

__O0o.o0O_ _

_“Tom?” Harry called through the door. “You in? Can you help me with the door?”_

_There was no response, but Harry spied a crack between the door, and nudged it open with his foot. He gave out a grunt when one of the boxes in his arms hit the doorway and punched him in the chest. The boxes were stacked high, and Harry had trouble navigating with them on his hands. “Little help here?” His voice came out muffled, and Harry rolled his eyes. Tom better be sleeping, or God help him, because to ignore his own brother when they had their hands full?_

_At last, with some difficulty, Harry managed to maneuver the boxes so that he could see Tom—and the boxes came tumbling down._

_Green blankets were strewn about the bed with Tom in the middle of them all, propped up by the mounds and mounds of pillows that Tom always demanded. His normally pale face was flushed pink, his mouth parted open, and brown eyes closed. One of his hands was pushed into his briefs._

_And Harry’s spot by the door could see everything._

_He yelled out an apology and ran out the door, slamming it shut behind him, He left the boxes in there, too embarrassed to care that some of the items inside them could be broken. Dear God, Harry had just seen his own baby brother wanking._

_“Christ, Harry!” Tom screamed, face red and tears starting to well at the shame of his own brother seeing him. “Don’t you know how to knock?!” He had been so close, so near the edge, he had only needed a couple more tugs, and Tom was sure he would have had his first orgasm._

_He hastily wrapped the blankets around him and covered himself from head to toe. “What the fuck do you think you were doing walking in without knocking?! This is _my_ room! I have rights to privacy!”_

_“Watch your language, Tom!” Harry yelled back. “And I do know how to knock!”_

_“You have no fucking right to tell me to shut up!”_

_“I so do! I’m your fucking older brother!”_

_“See?!”_

_Harry groaned and dragged his hands down his face. God, his brother can be such a twat sometimes. He stood there for a few moments, unsure of what to do, and awkward silence hung through the air like a blade._

_“Um,” Harry coughed, “are you...are you decent?”_

_“‘Decent?’ Jesus, Harry, I’m a fucking man, not a woman––”_

_“A man? Tom, you’re only _thirteen_!” _

_An indigent squak came through the door at his comment, and Harry suppressed a laugh. “So...can I come in?”_

_Tom shuffled on the bed, securing the blankets around him before sniffing, “I guess you can, if you tell me why.”_

_“I dropped some boxes,” was the bland reply and Tom stared at the messy pile on his carpeted floor. At least the boxes were taped, nothing spilled out._

_“Fine.”_

_Harry carefully opened the door and walked into the room. He stacked the boxes into a neat tower, making damned sure to not look at Tom despite his brother drilling holes into him._

_When the last box was placed, Harry straightened himself and stood staring at the forest green wall in front of him. He rocked himself this way and that, hesitating, before using the courage he was known for. “Why were you wanking?”_

_Tom stared at his brother’s back, mouth open in shock. Did he just…? “Wh-what do you mean _why_ was I wanking?” Tom sputtered, his flush rising again at the question. “I’m fourteen! It’s perfectly natural at my age to be curious!”_

_Harry snorted and sneaked a glance back at Tom. “At fourteen? I never did such a thing.”_

_“Yeah, and that’s why you were the laughing stock of the year last year.” Tom’s voice died down to a whisper, and he looked away from his brother’s form._

_A pause. “So it’s about that, huh?”_

_The bed squeaked as Tom shifted around, unsure and uncomfortable. “...Yeah.”_

_Harry sighed and scratched at the back of his head before he turned around. He walked up to his brother’s bed where Tom had his head, the only thing visible from the great cocoon of blankets, bowed. “You’re such an idiot, you know that?”_

_“No. You’re the idiot.”_

_Harry smiled at that, his brother was such a perfectionist, wanting to be good at everything and anything. “How about I help you on this?”_

_Tom’s head didn’t perk up, but it was as close a prideful, stubborn person like Tom would allow. Harry didn’t blame Tom, growing up in a household like theirs taught them to never trust anyone. A helping hand in their world could lead to a damnation of a life, a venomous viper coiled and ready to strike at a moments notice._

_The cocoon of blankets around Tom loosened, creating a hole big enough for an arm to fit through. Harry ruffled Tom’s hair, proud that his brother would trust him enough for this, before sneaking his hand into the gap and making Tom whine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I've got a Tumblr (coffee-teacup) now. Come poke me and say Hi there.


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